


Altered Reality

by thedevilchicken



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Playful Sex, School Uniforms, Sex Magic, Sexual Roleplay, Teacher/Student Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 13:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14309442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Scott knows Jean wasn't trying to kill him. Wanda on the other hand, pretty much is.





	Altered Reality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wipvanwrinkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wipvanwrinkle/gifts).



Scott knows Jean didn't mean to kill him. At least, he thinks he does. He hopes he does.

Wanda, on the other hand, is pretty much trying to kill him. 

Maybe not literally, but then again maybe literally because who ever really knows what's going to happen when she gets inside his head? Her control isn't what she'd like it to be, especially not when she's distracted, and she's _very_ distracted, but the fact is that he trusts her more than anyone does. Otherwise, he wouldn't do this willingly.

However, sometimes she gets carried away. Now would seem to be one of those times. 

There are things that Wanda can do with her magic and his mind that he thinks maybe, in another lifetime, Jean might have been able to, too. Of course, the difference there is that Wanda is the one that's currently sitting on a desk in an X-Mansion classroom wearing what looks a lot like a school uniform, her hands tucked under her thighs, swinging her legs. She looks amused and ridiculously pleased with herself. 

"Wanda..." Scott says, like he's about to protest or disapprove, and she gives him an exaggerated pout. 

"Did I break the rules, Mr. Summers?" she says, and she hops down from the desk onto her flat school shoes. She puts her hands on her hips. "Is my skirt too short?" 

Her skirt _is_ too short, or it would be if they were really in a school, except this is not a school and she's not really wearing a skirt. He's lying in bed in the Avengers headquarters and so is she, and it's not even the same bed. She's probably wearing a Stark Industries t-shirt and a pair of fluffy socks because she hates it when her feet get cold and he's lying there in a pair of boxers that he didn't buy because officially, he still doesn't exist, so officially, he can't have a bank account. Officially, he guesses Tony Stark owns everything he has, but he probably doesn't want his underwear back anytime soon.

"Wanda..." he says again, frowning at her, and he knows she's mocking him because she thinks he's always so terribly serious. Maybe he is, but this probably isn't going to help, considering the way she's dressed and what she clearly has in mind. Her little plaid skirt is so short it's practically a belt and she's wearing a blouse that has so many buttons undone behind her neatly knotted tie that he's pretty sure he can see her bra peeking out behind it and, oh God, she's wearing black knee socks and shiny black Mary Janes and her hair's in a long braid hanging over her shoulder. She doesn't wear glasses but she's wearing glasses, and Scott is going directly to hell. 

"Should I copy out some lines, Mr. Summers?" she asks, the look on her face coming really close to smirking though she's trying almost hard to play innocent. "Should I maybe get the cane?"

He sighs. He rakes the fingers of one hand back through his hair, and it feels real because it always feels real. He just didn't expect to find himself here, with her like this, but she's the one with the powers so she's the one who gets to choose and he guesses the joke's on him: he's been thinking about home a lot over the last few days. He's been thinking about the school that he'll never see again because here, it doesn't exist. It never did and it never will.

"Maybe it would be better if I took the skirt off?" she says, and she trails her fingers up over her thighs. The skirt is wrapped around and buckled at her waist and before he can say _for God's sake, Wanda_ , she's already undone it. She drops it to the floor. The tails of her blouse do not cover the white lace of her underwear and Scott sighs again. She's beautiful and he knows she knows he thinks that, and not just because she's in his head. 

She probably knew it the first time he set eyes on her.

\---

He'd been in her world a long time before they met. Relatively speaking, at least.

He remembers waking with no idea where he was; sure, technically he _knew_ where he was - it was still Alkali Lake, after all - but everything felt different, like the universe had taken a ninety degree turn off its axis and nothing made any kind of sense anymore. It wasn't home, he knew that viscerally, and Jean was gone. He looked for her, but he already knew somehow he wouldn't find her. There wasn't even a trace.

He walked to the nearest town, which wasn't exactly nearby but his bike was gone and he couldn't find it in himself to be concerned by distance. His cellphone didn't work - he fished change from his pocket and tried the school but the number he called was out of service. Storm's number was a guy called Khaled in DC, not Ororo Munroe, and something in him had already known as he picked up and dialled that he wasn't going to get her on the line. He was chasing ghosts. 

Nothing made sense, except he knew the X-Men didn't exist. And when he sat himself down on a stool in the nearest bar, when the bartender brought him a beer and the TV flashed to the news, there were the Avengers. Wherever the hell he was, it sounded like mutants just didn't exist. Wherever the hell he was, what they had was the Avengers, not the X-Men. Looking at the mess they'd made, it looked like they were all getting on about as well as each other.

He didn't think he was going to get such a quick introduction, but he guessed stranger things had happened and frankly, some of them had happened to him. Some guy with an attitude and a stink of cheap bourbon nudged him in the back and muttered something about pricks wearing sunglasses indoors. Scott turned. The guy grabbed at his glasses and before Scott could stop him, they were off his face; before he could close his eyes, he'd blown out the side of the bar and the whole damn thing was trying really hard to collapse. 

He found his glasses on the floor, and he dragged the last three people out before the building could go down, but then the cops found him. Two hours in a cell at the local station, wondering what the hell could go wrong next but feeling oddly calm about it, and in walked Iron Man. 

"Don't think that just because no one died you're off the hook, guy," he said, the mask retracting to reveal Tony Stark inside. "I mean, great work, but maybe don't bring the house down in the first place?"

Scott raised his brows. "Have you given any thought at all to the fact I didn't start it?" he asked. 

"Not as much as the local PD, apparently." Stark ushered in a cop who unlocked the cell door and then retreated forthwith. "There's at least five witnesses who told the police a drunk guy called you an ass and stole your glasses. Now, where I'm from that's not usually enough to make someone blow up a building, but since the cameras show you shooting some kind of percussive blast from inside your eyes...I'm gonna guess you didn't mean to. Am I right?"

Scott sighed. "He called me a prick, not an ass," he said, picking himself up off of the cot. He surmised he didn't need to answer the question because Stark already knew the answer.

Stark nodded sagely. "Sure, that's an important distinction," he said. "Now, how about we get you back to Avengers HQ and you tell me all about it?"

He went with him. Stark seemed surprised when he didn't put up any kind of a fight, didn't protest at all, but the hell of it was he had nowhere else to go. He'd spent the last twenty bucks he'd had in the world on mediocre beer.

The Avengers' headquarters wasn't actually all that bad. He'd been half expecting some kind of underground bunker of a complex but it was a light, airy space with huge glass windows and massive grounds surrounding it - Scott couldn't help but think it was kinda like a cross between a high-end car dealership and an aircraft hangar with a five star aparthotel built onto the end. He could deal with that. Having talked to Tony Stark on his plane back down to upstate New York, it almost made more sense than anything else he'd seen since he'd woken up. Especially since the place sat right on top of where the school should've been. He'd gone home but it wasn't home. It really was a brave new world he'd woken up in.

After that, Scott lived in the lab. More correctly: he was _kept_ in the lab. He didn't mind, not really - after all, nothing there was really real to him, not like his own reality had been. Colors looked wrong, even through his usual shade of ruby quartz red. Food tasted wrong, like his brain misremembered all the flavors. Sometimes, when he touched things, it was almost like he'd be able to push his hand straight through them if he really tried, but he didn't try. It didn't seem like it was worth the effort, especially when Stark kept him so busy with the tests; he was poked and prodded for weeks on end, blood tests, tissue tests, hair and DNA. Stark and his staff scanned him every way they knew how to and talked about him like he wasn't there. He should've hated it but he didn't. He didn't have a whole lot of feeling about anything, truth be told.

It was months before they really tested his optic blasts. They'd had him demonstrate outside, of course, a couple of days after he'd arrived, once they'd checked the sky would be clear so he couldn't bring down any passing aircraft and the grounds were clear of visitors. It would've been easier if he'd had his visor with him but hey, he hadn't realised his supposedly dead girlfriend was going to toss him into an alternate reality or he'd've definitely packed accordingly. He'd just taken off his glasses and blasted the hell out of a few trees and an expensive-looking car parked suspiciously nearby while a few scientists in lab coats carrying clipboards all flinched. Stark, in his armor, didn't seem to care. He seemed more intrigued than pissed about his blown-up motor vehicle. Scott almost thought he'd parked it there on purpose.

It was months before they really tested his optic blasts, and then suddenly it was all about them. He busted down purpose-built walls. He bored holes into the ground. What-the-hell-ever, he thought, since maybe it actually felt good, for once, and Stark seemed to sort of revel in it, chaotic asshole that he was. Scott watched Iron Man blow shit up on TV when he was allowed to watch, watched him save the world, and in the back of his mind he thought maybe he should've been out there with them. His reality had infinity stones, too, and really, _really_ , fuck Thanos. He just wished his friends had been there. He wished he was home. He wished he could help, but he wasn't sure how. 

Still, he stayed in the lab. He ate when he was told to. He stripped off his clothes and lay down on the exam table when he was told to. He ran on a treadmill like a hamster on a wheel. He blew things up. He peed in a cup. He worked out so he wouldn't lose his goddamn mind and sometimes Stark left him books to read or they put the radio on and sometimes he recognised a song from before he'd arrived except it would be different, slightly, like sometimes there were other versions of people from his world alive in this one. 

He tried Googling a few names of the people he'd known sometimes, under strict supervision like he was some kind of secret superhacker, and he came up empty; this world had no Jean Grey, no Charles Xavier, no Hank McCoy, not even Scott Summers though he guessed that wasn't true now he was there. There were no mutants at all, from what he could tell, except for him. And the only people he ever saw were Stark and his scientists and sometimes, occasionally, Dr. Banner. He guessed at least Stark and Banner treated him like a person most of the time, not a freak in a gilded cage. Usually, at least.

He gave up his glasses more than once and he walked around and he ate and he drank and he slept with his eyes taped shut for days at a time, fumbling along the walls to find his way. He showered like that, trying to remember where he'd left things, visualizing them, the shampoo, the toothpaste, his Stark Industries-branded underwear and socks and sweats. He didn't know for sure but it seemed like the clothes were brand new every time, not washed, though he'd've preferred they didn't feel like they were fresh from the store. Sometimes he wondered where his own clothes had wound up, too - at least they'd felt like they belonged to him. He figured they were being tested, too, just like he was, piece by piece.

His glasses were gone again, had been since the previous afternoon, and he was dressing after a shower after his usual hamster wheel run when he heard the door to his not-so-private room swing open. It wasn't the first time by a long shot - they brought fresh clothes and new shoes and clean bedsheets all the time, not that he had cupboards or a closet to keep anything in but hey, he basically didn't own a single thing anymore, not even the glasses they kept taking from him. He'd barely ever had time to wear a pair of sneakers in before they were whisked away, so he figured it was probably just time for the ritual replacement of not-quite-his stuff again. What he didn't expect was the sound of steps at the bathroom door, too. 

"So, here you are," the visitor said. It was a female voice, accented, definitely not one of the scientists, or at least not one he'd met. They tended to stay away unless they had to, something something ethics though he was pretty sure that was just a convenient excuse. 

"So here I am," he replied. He'd pulled on his sweatpants but that was as far as he'd gotten; still, he'd gotten pretty used to prying eyes. He fumbled for his discarded towel and started rubbing down his damp hair. Hell, even the guy they sent to cut his hair once a month - to take what they cut off for testing - barely talked to him. 

They stood in silence for a moment; Scott figured that was fine, he could probably outlast her. He fumbled on the end of the bed for the shirt he'd laid out, but she got there first and she handed it to him, her fingers brushing at his wrist though that was at least halfway confusing. He pulled it on and felt the tape at his eyes start to pull loose again, so he backtracked into the bathroom, patting the walls along the way to grab the medical tape, but when he came back, she caught his hand. 

"You don't need that," she told him. "I came to bring you these." And she took the tape from his hand and replaced it with his glasses, then she reached up to peel the tape carefully away from his eyelids, her fingertips brushing his face till she stepped back. He slipped the glasses on. When he opened his eyes, or at least once he actually managed to focus after sixteen hours with his eyes taped shut, he recognized her face from the television. And, in his ruby quartz glasses, in his mutant eyes, she _glowed_. That was something the TV hadn't shown him.

"Don't they call you the Scarlet Witch?" he said. 

She smiled. Or, rather, she did something that was almost smiling, a kind of twist of her lips as she looked away and tossed her hair but he couldn't tell if that meant she was embarrassed or annoyed. He guessed maybe he'd struck a nerve either way.

"I guess they do," she said. "But I mostly prefer when people call me Wanda. And you are...?"

He held out his hand. "I'm Tony Stark's lab rat," he told her, amiable enough about it, which he guessed was because he didn't have much feeling about the idea one way or the other - it just kind of was. But Wanda raised her brows. She took his hand. She shook it.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Tony's lab rat," she replied, like she appreciated some kind of irony he didn't realize was present. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime." Then she turned and she walked back out through the bedroom door the way she'd come. He didn't follow but somehow, oddly, really oddly, Scott found he almost wished she'd stayed. He hadn't realized he'd wanted visitors. He hadn't known there were any visitors in this reality for him to have. 

She came back two days later, when he'd finished with his usual morning tests. He had more scars from needles and scalpels and medical implements he didn't even know the names of than he had from his old life with the X-Men, he hadn't left the lab where they kept him in Avengers compound in almost a year, and there he was, rubbing at a new mark on the back of his hand, when she wandered in through the door. He knew the Avengers didn't stay in the same block he was in - he could see theirs through the reinforced windows, at the other side of the quad, and sometimes he'd sen them walk by. Captain America and Hawkeye, Thor sometimes, Black Widow, Spider-man though he looked as young as most of the kids he'd known back at the school had. And, despite the things he knew had happened, they looked like a team again. He missed that.

"Did you know I was here?" he asked her, as she took a seat on the pristine white couch. The pink-red glow that tinged the edges of her looked a lot like it might scorch everything she touched, but he was pretty sure he was seeing something no one else saw about her. She was wearing slippers like she'd been told to leave her shoes at the door for pseudo-scientific reasons, and she curled her legs up onto the couch as she turned to him, resting one arm on the back cushion. 

"We knew you were here," she said. "We all did."

He nodded. He guessed he understood and it wasn't like he'd ever expected to see anyone, least of all one of them, and they sat in silence for a few long minutes before she stood again and walked away. He knew he should've said something, though, because who knew if she'd even come back? The surprise was, again, that he wanted her to.

She came back a few days later and caught him at the dining table, eating dinner alone sometime just past sunset. She joined him, at the chair that had always been vacant before that, one leg tucked underneath her and one elbow on the tabletop. She watched him. She seemed to know when he was looking at her despite his glasses, if the quirk at the corner of her mouth was anything to judge by, but he made himself keep eating - even if the chicken still didn't taste like chicken and the carrots didn't taste like carrots. When he was finished, he put his knife and fork down on the plate, very neatly. 

"Is this another test?" he asked her. "Something about social interaction?"

She raised her brows. She shook her head, her eyes on him, her hair moving around her shoulders. She told him, "No, it's not a test." 

"Then you're babysitting me? Wanda, I'm not going anywhere. I have nowhere to go."

"That's not it, either," she said. 

"Then what?"

"Maybe I like you." 

"You don't know me." 

"Then I should get to know you." 

He huffed out a breath. He sat back sharply. 

This isn't a zoo," he said. "And I'm not your pet."

She stood abruptly. "No, you're Tony Stark's," she said, and she turned and left. He regretted it even before the door swung shut. 

He didn't think she'd be back, but she was back a few days later, around lunchtime. She brought her own food with her and she sat there, unpacking a lunch bag on the tabletop while one of the scientists brought him a tray and then left again, without a word. 

"Friendly," Wanda said, one brow arched, as she tucked into a plastic tub of some kind of pasta with a plastic fork. 

Scott shrugged and picked up his cutlery. "They're here to observe, not interact," he replied. 

"You might think they would have collected all the data they could by now," she said, with a tilt of her head. "Do you think they enjoy it?"

"I think they're employed to do a job," he replied. "They probably have families and mortgages and car loans." 

"Did you?" she asked. "Where you came from. Did you have a family and a mortgage and a car loan?"

"No." He attempted to cut a piece out of a meatloaf that smelled nothing like meatloaf. "I've told Stark all of this. I had a team. I had a girlfriend. I worked in a school."

"A team like ours?" she glanced out of the window and gestured outside vaguely, not that anyone was out there but their building was in that general direction. "Like the Avengers?"

"Something like that, sure." 

"Do you miss them?"

Scott rested his hands against the edge of the table, his knife and fork still in his hands. She sounded so casual and he didn't get how she could be, talking about this, or maybe he'd just given everyone the wrong idea about him with his calm, placid demeanor. This reality was still strange to him, still out of sync, and maybe it always would be, but he knew - he _knew_ \- that he couldn't go back, because there was no Jean Grey there to send him back. It wasn't that he didn't care. He just didn't have much hope.

"I miss them," he told her, then he looked back down at his plate and he went back to cutting. "All the time."

"I understand," she said. The way she said it, he almost believed she did. And, when she was done with her meal, she left; when she was gone, he saw she'd left an apple on the table. He shined it against the sleeve of his shirt. When he bit into it, maybe it didn't taste right but it did taste good. 

She came by again two days later and again three after that. They sat together in the lab's antiseptic white living spaces, segregated from the lab itself by a thick reinforced glass door that the scientists worked behind- they sat at the dining table, on the couch by the window, or Wanda stretched out on the floor in patch of sunlight like a lazy cat, glowing, her long hair spread out. She didn't talk much but he didn't really need her to. He'd gotten used to that, in the year since he'd arrived. Sometimes, he just liked the company.

Sometimes, she brought more fruit. There were oranges and and strawberries, grapes and figs and chunks of pineapple, and she left them behind when she left him there. Sometimes he ate them at the table and sometimes on the couch, trying not to stain the bright white cushions, listening to the technicians' radio playing through the surprisingly thin wall. Nothing she left him tasted right, but it did taste good. 

Sometimes she came in with her hair smelling like some kind of chemical she said was chlorine though it smelled nothing like he remembered. There was a pool in another building, she said, and she'd go swimming sometimes, when the others weren't around. They didn't all live there full time, it turned out - most were in New York or the surrounding areas, but Vision and Stark and Stark's fiancée were around a lot of nights. So was Wanda. From what he'd heard on the news and from the gossip when the techs thought he couldn't hear, she'd lost her home. She'd lost her twin brother. Maybe she _did_ know how he felt, after all. 

"I hear our girl Wanda's been visiting," Stark said, when he wandered into the lab the next morning where Scott was sitting on the exam table. Of course, 'morning' seemed to be relative where Tony Stark was concerned: he was drinking a big cup of coffee and eating a pastry almost the size of his head when he walked in, like 11am was good for breakfast, and apparently none of the scientists dared remind him of the rules about food and drink in the lab. "She says maybe we should let you out more. What do you think?"

"I think I'm fine where I am," Scott replied. "And I didn't ask her to visit." 

Stark raised his brows, leaning down against the workbench. "You want me to tell her to stop?" he asked. 

Scott thought about it. He considered it. He screwed his face up in an ironic kind of smile. He shrugged. He shook his head. He chuckled at himself. 

"No," he said, and Stark nodded, knowingly, before the conversation moved on to the new visor he'd been trying to perfect. But the whole thing felt like more of an admission than he'd meant it to. Mostly because he hadn't realized there was anything for him to admit.

Three weeks later, Wanda took him swimming. Stark had whipped up a pair of ruby quartz swimming goggles and provided a convenient Speedo that Scott eyed reluctantly when he handed it over and even more so when he first put it on, but the water felt good once he'd changed and dived in. He swam laps while Wanda twisted her hands till they glowed - _really_ glowed, not just in Scott's eyes - and made the water move like it was living, dangling her feet in from the side. They showered off the pool water after, both still in their swimsuits, side by side, then he went back to the lab. He hated that when he went bed that night, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Wanda's damp hair clinging to her skin, and the way she smiled at him. It felt a lot like a betrayal.

Three weeks after that, Wanda took him over to the Avengers' block. There were a few of them present, eating at their dining table; everything was different there, from the fact that nothing was that shade of bright, hospital white to the fact they had a kitchen full of food and a six pack of beer sitting on the counter and the television was turned to a hockey game. Stark was there. So were Captain America and Vision and Thor, and Black Widow came in late with a bottle of wine. They introduced themselves and Stark asked him to join them for dinner so he did; while he ate salad that tasted nothing like salad, he tried not to look at Black Widow, who'd said her name was Natasha. The color of her hair reminded him of Jean. 

"You've been quiet tonight," Wanda said, as she walked him back over to the lab. He raised his brows at that and she inclined her head to concede the point. "Okay, more than usual." 

He shrugged, tucking his hands into the shallow hip pockets of his sweats. He missed his own clothes. He missed jeans and boots and his bike jacket. His missed his bike. He missed his friends. He missed Jean. 

"Are you thinking about your home?" she asked. He nodded; she smiled faintly. "Sometimes I think about mine, too."

She took his hand; she brought it up; she pressed her lips to the back of it, just briefly, and then she left. Scott hated how confused he felt. 

A month later, Stark declared the tests over. Done. Complete. They'd found out everything they could and hey, look at that, they couldn't send him back, didn't even know where he was from because no one could work it out - he said it like he was sorry but honestly more like he wasn't accustomed to his plans meeting failure, and Scott guessed for a guy as rich and smart as Tony Stark, that was probably true. Scott, for his part, didn't feel much about that, he wasn't happy or sad, he wasn't angry, because he'd known all along he could never go back. It wasn't the news Stark thought it was.

Once the tests were over and Stark had declared him officially Not A Threat, he moved into the main block, into a room next to Captain America's though Cap only occupied it maybe two thirds of the time. The guy was busy, Scott guessed - he was out saving the world or at least a senator's daughter's cat and had another place he lived in somewhere else, just like they all did. Except for him, and Wanda, and Vision, and Stark, if you could count Tony Stark when he had places dotted all around the world. 

But when he woke in the morning and went out to fix himself breakfast, feeling out of practice for the first few weeks, Wanda was there in her robe looking sleepy, so he poured her a coffee when he poured one for himself. When he went out to run, Wanda was there practising burst of magic-propelled flight. When Stark taught him how to fly the Quinjet, though it was pretty much just like the Blackbird had been, Wanda was strapped in with them. When he put on his Stark-engineered visor and aimed and fired, Wanda was there, too, practicing her aim with her strange magic fireballs. Maybe the strange part was that he didn't mind it. The strange part was, he wanted her there. 

He'd been there almost twenty months when Stark gave him a suit and told him, _Hey, maybe you'd like to come along._ So he suited up, feeling kinda strange about it, settling all the armored black leather into place that felt strangely like his old suit back home, and then the team went out. It was strange then, too, knowing how he'd used to lead and taking orders instead, hanging back when they told him to, pushing forward when Cap gave the order, but it made his heart beat faster. And Wanda, _Wanda_ , when he looked at her she was glowing, fucking _burning_ , bright like a beacon. Standing in the light of her magic made him feel more real that he had in months, made him feel more connected, just plain made him _feel_. 

She flashed him a smile. He knew how much she'd been through and what some people out there still thought of her. He admired how she was still fighting. He admired _her_.

And afterwards, as they flew back to the compound, that fire in her began to calm. He watched it, from his place several seats away, how it curled back down inside her and took that connection he'd felt with it, but when she looked at him, it flared again. He felt something like that in himself, too, lighting him up. He knew she knew. He wanted her to. 

"I could make you believe I'm her," she said, once they'd got inside and changed and showered, once they were away from the others, in the corridor outside his room, and he frowned in response.

Maybe it would've been easier that way. It would've maybe been good because there was no denying how he missed Jean; he missed her every day and had since even before she'd sent him there, since back when everyone had believed she was dead. He missed waking up with her. He missed the way she smiled and how she didn't care that she couldn't look him in the eye and all the little things that he'd maybe taken for granted. It would've been easy to say yes and to see her again, _touch_ her again, just briefly, but it wouldn't've been her. Not really. 

She raised her hand, her fingers crooking as her magic gathered. He caught her wrist and watched it die away again. 

"Don't," he said. 

Her face went flat. She stepped back. She wrenched her wrist out of his grip. 

"I thought you wanted to," she said. 

"I do." His lips twisted wryly. "I just don't want to pretend you're Jean." 

The way she looked at him said that was something she really hadn't expected. The way she looked at him said that wasn't an outcome that she'd even considered. But he hadn't gotten into this to dredge up old memories; he'd gotten into this because maybe, on some level, some part of him wanted to make new ones. 

They went into Scott's room and they went to bed. Being with her that night reminded him of what it was like to be alive; in the morning, everything felt just a little more real.

\---

"You know, this is _not_ how schoolgirls behave," Scott says, and she shrugs and scuffs the toe of one shoe against the floor. "At least they didn't when I was teaching."

"How _should_ I behave, Mr. Summers?" she asks. "Do you think I'm very bad?" 

He rubs his eyes. He's not wearing his glasses; he guesses that's one thing to be said for Wanda's magic dreamscapes - he doesn't need to wear them unless she wants him to need to, and tonight it seems she doesn't want him to. He can look at her and see her in full color, from the whites of her blouse and her bra and her panties to the red plaid of her skirt, her red tie and the long black socks, the exact shade of her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her skin. She's wearing glasses instead of him. He has to admit he kind of likes the way they look on her.

"There's a reason you're in detention, Ms. Maximoff," he tells her, deciding the best way through is to play along, and she grins just like the cat that got the cream. 

"Why don't you show me the error of my ways?" she says. Finally, Scott figures, _why not_.

"Are you going to do as you're told, Ms. Maximoff?" he asks. 

"That depends what you tell me to do, Mr. Summers," she replies, trying hard to tame her smile. She fails.

"That's not the answer I'm looking for," he says. 

"I'm sorry. What should I do?"

"Turn around," he say, so she does, turning her back to him. "Bend over," he says, so she does that, too, leaning down low over the desk in front of her. And he steps in close to run his hands up over the back of her thighs, from the tops of her kneesocks to the lace of her underwear. He nudges her feet apart with the outside of one well-polished wingtip against her patent Mary Jane, because apparently she has ideas about how teachers should be dressed and she's not afraid to dress him. He runs one hand between her thighs. He hooks one finger inside her underwear and he teases her with it, slowly, the tip tracing the line where her lips meet. Then he eases the fabric aside, exposing her. 

Right here and now, there's not a hair in sight between her thighs - that's not always true, because she likes to experiment from one time to the next, but right now she's completely bare. She's bare and she's wet, he can see that when he teases her lips apart with both his thumbs, spreading her open. He runs one thumb between them and she takes a slow, deep breath. He runs that thumb down to her clit and he rubs there, slowly, lightly, and he can see the way the muscles tighten in her thighs. 

"Are you paying attention, Ms. Maximoff?" he asks, as he moves his hand away, and all she can do is nod. He drops down onto his knees in his well-tailored slacks on the dusty classroom floor and he leans in. He licks her, running the tip of his tongue against her, teasing at her clit to make her take a deep, unsteady breath. He doesn't know how she _should_ taste, he only knows how she _does_. 

He stands; he unbuckles his belt; he unbuttons his slacks. He's already hard inside them, and he eases his cock out. Fortunately the school isn't really a school and Wanda isn't really a student, she's a few years too old to be in high school and there's no Professor Xavier so this school they're in does not exist anywhere in the world outside Scott's head. And, frankly, he was never the best teacher, which he proves by running the tip of his cock against the place where his tongue just was, then teasing her lips apart with it. 

Jean would never have done this, he thinks; he kissed her in a classroom once, just a kiss though maybe he would've liked more, but he understood when she said no. They could've been caught so he hadn't been thinking straight. With Wanda, when she's in his head with no one else around, he doesn't have to.

He shifts his hips. He pushes inside her. She's so ready for this, and she makes a sound that's muffled by her own hands as he pushes in till he's all the way inside, as far as he can go. He doesn't bother pretending it's punishment because he figures the game's over now; he shifts his hips and moves in her, he leans against the desk with his left hand and the right dips down around her waist and down to find her clit again. He feels her pull tight around him. He hears her sigh as she shifts against him. 

He pulls back. He turns her; she perches on the edge of the desk and then he's inside her again, face to face, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. He yanks her tie away and the glasses he liked so much fall to the floor with a clatter. He wrenches her blouse wide open, the few remaining buttoned buttons popping. She laughs and she lies back and his hands move over her, over her breasts, her waist, and he slips one thumb down to the place where he's pushing inside her, teases her lips and his own cock with it till it's wet enough to rub slickly over her clit again. She pushes against him, taking him deeper, fucking herself on the length of him as he looks down and watches. He can see himself pushing into her. It's been five months now and he still can't quite believe how good that is. 

He knows when she's about to come because all her muscles quiver and pull tight, all through her thighs and all around the length of him. She groans, moans, takes a sharp breath and her legs pull at his waist, her back arches and oh God, she bucks against him, riding his cock through the length of her orgasm. He rubs her clit a little longer after, light touches that make her laugh and bat at his wrist with her hands and then he grips her hips and pushes in and damn, _damn_ , with a few more strokes he's there, too. A shiver runs down his spine and his muscles tense as he clenches his jaw and comes inside her, pushing deep. 

He wakes four seconds later. He's hard inside his underwear. He groans. This is just like Wanda.

\---

Scott knows Jean didn't try to kill him. Whatever it was that saved her life, whatever it was that wanted to take his, it wasn't the Jean he'd known; it was his Jean that saved him. It was his Jean that sent him here, where nothing makes sense and nothing looks right and he's learning the universe again from scratch. 

Jean didn't try to kill him, but he thinks maybe Wanda's trying to because he opens his eyes behind his glasses and she's standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip and a playful smile on her face. 

"Is something wrong?" she says, oh-so-innocently. "Is there something I can do to help?"

He chuckles. He turns back the sheets and he beckons to her to join him; he's already naked underneath the sheets, which she acknowledges with a raise of her brows. She drops her robe and climbs onto the bed and she licks his cock with a totally indecent smile, then she straddles his hips and pushes him inside her. 

Even though the room is dark, she's incandescent in Scott's otherworldly eyes, and when he's inside her, all the world feels real, and so does he. Bit by bit, her magic's making him belong. Sometimes, he thinks Jean only sent him part of the way, and it's Wanda who's doing the rest.

Maybe she's trying to kill him, kinda, sorta, with the way she teases him and wears him out. Maybe she's trying to kill him, but one thing's for sure: with her, he'll enjoy every minute of the time he's alive.


End file.
